


Grace Full

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is uncharacteristically clumsy after he returns from the dead and starts working with John again. Dr. John H. Watson is worried that something is terribly wrong.</p><p>No angst, just fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace Full

When Sherlock was five years old, his grandfather Siger took him onto his lap and showed him his pocket watch.  Siger carefully opened the back of the watch and displayed the intricate gears and levers of the mechanics.

“Sherlock, that is the heart of the watch,” he said in a baritone made gruff with pipe tobacco. “That is what makes the watch work. Each one of those pieces is important to the working of the watch as a whole. If even one part of it fails, one gear slips by a millimeter, the whole thing stops.”

Sherlock stared at the watch, at the graceful sweep of the hands and the purring mechanism for two minutes straight, longer than he had focused on a single thing so far in his life.

Two months later, his grandfather died. His mother retreated to her room and didn’t come out for weeks. His father had barely left his study before, and did not appear to see any reason to change his behaviour. Sherlock went more or less unsupervised until Mycroft came home from school for Christmas break and discovered the situation. He saw that Sherlock’s knees were black and blue, and he had a goose egg on his forehead from bumping into walls and doors and bookshelves.

Mycroft bought Sherlock a chemistry kit for Christmas, and Sherlock stayed in his room all of Christmas week, ignoring the dinner bell and picking absently at any food that was brought to him.

Mycroft inherited the watch.

 +

When John was six, his grandfather Robert took him to a Charlie Chaplin movie festival to see Modern Times. While the other audience members laughed, John was paralyzed with horror in his seat, particularly during the scene when the little man falls into the machine and winds his way through the gears. John could not fathom what was funny about being trapped in a machine, or being beaten up by a machine that was supposed to feed you lunch.

A year later, the night of his grandfather’s funeral, John’s father got drunk and claimed he had had enough of his wife’s crying. John stepped between them, and was picked up by his father and tossed across the room. He got to his feet and held up his small fists to his father. 

His father paused, then laughed, ruffled John’s hair and stumbled to bed. John then fetched a damp cloth to wipe the blood from his mother’s face.

+

“God damn it.”

John looked up from his notebook to see Sherlock lean over to pick up his mobile, and frowned. Graceful Sherlock, physically effortless Sherlock, had fumbled his phone? The man who could text a scathing message to his brother with his non-dominant hand while using a pipette to place a minute drop of liquid on a microscope slide with his right hand, had dropped his phone?

He saw Sherlock glance at him through the corner of his eye, and quickly returned his attention to this notetaking – or at least appeared to. He knew he couldn’t hide much from the most observant man in the world, but he would at least give the impression of ignoring the uncharacteristic clumsiness. In his head, however, John began a mental tally of some recent incidents:

  * Tripping on the stairs up to their flat;
  * Spilling a glass of water John had just passed;
  * Whacking his head on a low doorway into a crime scene in a wine cellar.



For a moment, he considered whether he had built up an idealized version of Sherlock while he had been away. Two years away from a friend, especially if you thought he was dead – one could be forgiven for a bit of glorification. But John could not recall a single time Sherlock had been less than graceful, swooping around a crime scene like a goddamn dancer. 

No, this clumsiness was new, just since Sherlock had returned, and since they had started working together again. 

The doctor in John fretted at this observation. People that work in the health sector are famous for being hypervigilant, painfully aware of potential symptoms of medical conditions, often jumping to the worst case scenario. Sometimes it was helpful, though – after a lecture in medical school on Alzheimer’s disease, he had persuaded his Aunt Mildred to take Uncle Jim to the doctor with a list of his symptoms, and was both pleased and horrified when his amateur diagnosis was confirmed. 

So, uncharacteristic gracelessness, after a period during which Sherlock had been up to God knows what – fighting for his life, most likely on a daily basis. Sherlock had been rather close mouthed about what he had been up to while shutting down Moriarty’s network, but John could not imagine it did not include dangerous behaviour. 

Could he have acquired a brain injury during that time, an injury which was now affecting his mobility? Or any number of equally horrifying possibilities – motor neuron disease, Huntington’s, early onset Parkinson’s, brain tumour… John felt a bit sick contemplating any of these potential causes for Sherlock’s lapses in physicality.

John’s worried thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock’s imperious voice. “From the blood spatter pattern – there, there, and there – you can see that the deceased was attacked from behind by two assailants, both with knives, one a six inch hunting knife, the other a jackknife. She defended herself with a broken bottle – there, it rolled under that skip over there – but she was overcome.”

“So a mugging gone wrong?” Lestrade asked.

“Do you really think I’d have stayed this long if it was as dull as that? No, this was a professional hit. John, what do you see under her right ear?”

John tried to clear his head from his worries, and squatted down next to the body. “Noth – no, wait, I see it. A puncture mark?”

“Yes, exactly. The knives were to distract her while a third party injected her with poison.” Sherlock snapped off his latex gloves. “Have forensics run tests for the standard toxins, but my money’s on benzyl chloride.”

“Fantastic,” John said, smiling.

Sherlock dropped his gloves, bent to pick them up, hesitated for a mere second, then walked away, leaving the gloves and calling, “Text me the results.”

John stood and trotted after him, a frown creasing his forehead.

+

John prepared his speech the whole way home in the cab, and yet still felt unprepared when they arrived at the flat. _Do it do it do it do it_ rang in his head.

“Sherlock, I need to talk to you.”

Sherlock was hanging up his coat when John spoke, and dropped it. He picked it up and rehung it so quickly John wondered if he was trying to pretend it had never fallen.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t pry about your… time away, that you’d tell me when you were ready to do so. But I’ve been noticing…” Sherlock was still facing the closet, and John’s courage failed for a moment. He cleared his throat, thinking that invading Afghanistan had been easy compared to this. “I’ve been noticing that something’s not quite right. Physically.”

“I’m fine, John, not to worry. Tea?” Sherlock turned to the kitchen.

“I do worry, it’s my job to worry. I’m a doctor, and I’m your friend. And while I’m no genius consulting detective, I know when there are changes in someone’s physicality and that it should be checked out. Even if it’s just to eliminate the scary stuff.”

“I have no idea to what you’re referring,” Sherlock said, filling the kettle. 

“Yes, you do.”

Sherlock had overfilled the kettle and spilled some of the water back out. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, John.”

“Will you see a doctor please?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Will you let me examine you then?” 

Sherlock went still. 

“Just to humour me?” John pressed ahead, seeing an advantage.

“You’re being ridiculous, John.”

“Perhaps, but you forget that I’m as stubborn as you and I won’t let this go.” Sherlock was still turned away, leaning on the kitchen counter. “Nothing intrusive, I promise, just a basic exam, some neurological tests-”

“Fine, fine, if it will make you shut up about it.” Sherlock sat at one of the kitchen chairs, pouting like a giant five year old.

John let out a breath. “Thank you.” He trotted to his room and grabbed his medical kit which he kept on hand, on hand for the times when he or Sherlock might get hurt on a case, and Sherlock never consented to go to A&E unless he was unconscious. He returned to the kitchen quickly, concerned that Sherlock would change his mind in the ninety seconds or so he was gone, but Sherlock was still there, perfecting his pout.

“Let’s start with a cognitive test. Count backwards from one hundred by sevens.”

“For God’s sake, John.”

“Humour me.”

Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes and spoke rapidly without taking a breath. “Fine. One hundred, ninety three, eighty six, seventy nine, seventy two, sixty five, fifty eight, fifty one, forty four, thirty seven, thirty, twenty three, sixteen, nine, two, minus five… shall I continue?”

“Glad to see you didn’t delete your maths,” John smiled. He held his hands out in front of him, palms facing Sherlock. “Push against my hands.”

Sherlock placed his palms against John’s and pushed, hard. John braced his feet against the floor to keep from being toppled over in his chair. “All right, I get it, your strength isn’t impaired.” He turned his palms face up. “Put your hands on top of mine.”

Sherlock hesitated, then placed his hands gently over John’s. “What’s the purpose of these silly tests?”

“You’d get terribly offended if I asked that of any of the experiments that happen in this flat. This one’s to see if you have…” John’s voice trailed off as he looked down at Sherlock’s hands. They were barely touching his, ghosting over his fingers, but John could see the faint tremour. _Oh shit, oh shit_ , he thought, but watched carefully and realized that it wasn’t a Parkinsonian tremour, or an essential tremour, or anything else he was dreading, but equal in both hands and more like… nervousness. He held Sherlock’s hands, noting that they were slightly clammy, and shook them gently. He felt no stiffness or resistance, but did hear a slight intake of breath.

“Does that hurt?”

“…No.”

“I respect your privacy, Sherlock, but can you, would you, tell me if you received a head injury while you were… away?”

This time the answer came swiftly. “No. No injury.”

“May I examine your head?” 

Sherlock huffed a sardonic laugh. “Can’t tell you how often I’ve heard that. Though most of the time it’s a directive rather than a request.”

John laughed, feeling a little tension break. He stood and pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, feeling along the occipital bone, the parietals, along the joins of the plates of the skull, seeking any lumps, scars, seams that shouldn’t be there. 

Then he heard a tiny sigh. 

John’s breath hitched. Something inside his brain went very quiet, listening. He cleared his throat, licked his lips.

“Nothing wrong there, hard as rock,” he said, seeking asylum in humour.

“As expected,” Sherlock said, but his voice wasn’t quite right, not quite steady, his voice not matching the cockiness of the words.

John sat and busied himself with his kit, pulling out his stethoscope and fitting it into his ears, focusing on the practical. “Would you-” he started, then his voice failed again, he lost his doctor’s tone and intent, cleared his throat again and spoke the words, “would you undo a couple of buttons on your shirt for me please.”

Sherlock looked anywhere but at John as he obeyed, undoing two buttons on his silk shirt and pulling the fabric apart. John placed the diaphragm on the left side of Sherlock’s chest, hearing his heart beat, strong but rapid; fast, faster.

He looked up at Sherlock, but Sherlock kept his head tilted down, staring down at the stethoscope, and John’s hand, resting on his chest.

“Look at me.”

Sherlock did not move.

John licked his lips. “Sherlock, please look at me.”

And Sherlock looked up finally, and John looked in his eyes and saw the wide blown pupils in the bright kitchen light.

“Sherlock,” he said, the word punched out of his body. No other word would come to his lips. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes bored into him, examining him as closely as any clue at a crime scene. Then he held his hands out, palms up.

John felt as though he were dreaming, and lifted his hands to rest on top of Sherlock’s. They both looked down and observed the faint tremour in both sets of hands. 

Sherlock released his hands, then raised them to take the stethoscope from John’s ears. He carefully placed it into his own ears, lifted the diaphragm and placed it against John’s chest.

John could hear his own heart beating, a thready, rapid beat, his breath coming in short puffs, and deep down inside himself, next to his thundering heart, he felt something that he had pushed down and imprisoned a long, long time ago, in Angelo’s restaurant, now rustling like a dragon in weak chains – _hope_. 

Sherlock hummed quietly, a confirmation of a theory. He removed the stethoscope and placed it gently on the table. 

“You are correct, John,” he said. “Something did happen, but not while I was away. Well before that. A grievous error, a terrible mistake I made. I’d-” Sherlock faltered for a moment, then pressed ahead, “I’d like to rectify it now, if you will permit me.”

“Yes,” John whispered.

And slowly, slowly, they moved closer, two compasses finally finding their north in each other.

+

An immeasurable amount of time later, John was warm and sleepy and glowing in bed, with Sherlock’s long arm reaching over his ribcage and his long fingered hand spread over his heart, with John’s hand on top of it. 

He felt sleep pulling at his eyelids, dragging them down, when Sherlock said quietly, “I went to Prague first.”

John felt the consonants explode softly against the back of his neck, and squeezed Sherlock’s hand slightly to show he was listening. 

+

He was pulling his jumper over his head the next morning when he heard Sherlock calling from the sitting room, “John, _John_!”

John smiled at himself, jammed his feet into shoes and ran downstairs. 

Sherlock was whirling around the sitting room. “Breakfast will have to wait, John.” Without looking, he picked up his magnifier with long fingers and slid it into his pocket. “Lestrade just called, new case, a locked room murder.” A brief glance in the mirror, hands ruffling his hair, straightening his suit jacket. “Two victims, he says there are no prints anywhere, but I wouldn’t trust forensics to look in the right places.” A swoop to the closet, and the Belstaff swirled around his body, arms sliding into the sleeves. “Crime scene’s in Soho, but I know of a good bakery near it, we can pick up some croissants on our way.” Long fingers formed a loop in the scarf, forming a loose knot around Sherlock’s neck. He pulled down John’s coat, throwing it at him without looking. 

John caught it, and looked and grinned at Sherlock, warmth radiating up from the centre of his chest.

Sherlock stopped in the midst of pulling on his gloves, and for a moment mirrored John’s smile. Then he slowly crossed to John, winding his arms around John’s waist and pulling him in.

“All right?” he murmured.

“More than all right,” John replied. 

Sherlock traced John’s jaw with one long leather-gloved finger, and John closed his eyes for a moment. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John, his mouth dry and warm and full and so soft. The kiss lasted two, three breaths, then John gave Sherlock one more tiny kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

“Ready?”

“Absolutely.”

And Sherlock turned and gracefully ran down the stairs.

  _End_  


 


End file.
